


All Dressed Up to Die

by takethisnight_wrapitaroundme



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies, Formalwear, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, M/M, honestly there is just an insane amount of masturbating in the background of this fic, i just wanted to have them in suits and this is what happened, in which nicky & joe are murder husbands… except the only people they murder are each other, soulmates but for murder, unresolved homosexual tension to the nth degree
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:42:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25906765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takethisnight_wrapitaroundme/pseuds/takethisnight_wrapitaroundme
Summary: A thousand years have passed since Nicolò and Yusuf first met, and yet shoving a gun into the other’s mouth is still the closest they have ever come to kissing.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 28
Kudos: 112





	All Dressed Up to Die

**Author's Note:**

> The title says it all. Inspired by [this photoshoot](https://takethisnight-wrapitaroundme.tumblr.com/post/624933725258514432/plrks-luca-marinelli-and-marwan-kenzari), in particular the second pic of Luca, where he looks like he is anxiously awaiting someone ~~who is coming to murder him~~.

Sometimes Nicolò can feel his next death coming. Like knowing a rainstorm is about to sweep in, or sensing movement in the periphery of his vision, the skill is something half borne of instinct and half of experience. Some mornings he wakes up, and he just knows. He can feel it out there—lurking, waiting. Hunting.

There’s no stopping it—no stopping _him_ —and yet Nicolò can’t help but wish for one more night to himself before returning to their ritual of bloodshed. It is not often he indulges his more lavish whims, and tonight was supposed to be a special night out. It is his fault, he supposes, for making plans. His fault for having something to look forward to. Of course his personal demon would see to it that anything Nicolò eagerly awaited would be ruined right before his eyes.

He thinks of not going. He stares at the tuxedo he had tailored specifically for this occasion and he knows he can wear it another time. There will be other evenings, other opening nights, other opportunities to enjoy himself and the funds he has quietly acquired over the years.

But even the thought makes him furious. A thousand years have passed, and still he is bending to the will of that unkillable demon? No. _No_ , he will go and he will enjoy himself and if he winds up dead, he winds up dead.

His death is not, and never has been, the end of the world.

It is fifteen minutes to eight when the cab comes to a stop as near as it can get to the opera house. Nicolò pays the driver with an easy smile, but glances over his shoulder the moment he steps out, scanning his surroundings. He tells himself he has no need to be anxious—he has felt this feeling before, and been wrong about it—but there is something about tonight that tells him there is no mistake this time. Things are aligning too perfectly.

He crosses the Operngasse at a quick clip, letting the chill in the November air disguise his reason for hurrying. There is a crowd of people swarming outside the entrance to the opera house, and he blends in easily with them—just another man in a tuxedo; though unlike most, he does not have a date on his arm.

This being the grand reopening, there are photographers swarming at the doors, and a garish carpet leading inside. Nicolò sidesteps it all, leaving the limelight to those who crave it, and slips inside unnoticed via a side door.

It is brilliantly bright and beautiful inside. Looking around at the ceiling—for it’s hard to see the floor amidst all the bodies—he has to admit that the years-long renovation was well worth the wait. The marble shines in every iteration—columns and staircases and balustrades—and the paintwork is as impeccable as he remembers it being when the state opera first opened over a century ago.

He was not in the city then—not even on the continent—but he feels a fondness for this old building as he does to so few others that have survived against the wear of time and the unquenchable greed of developers. Old buildings like this feel like long-lost friends, and he is pleased that the most recent improvements have restored that history instead of erasing it.

 _Job well done_ , he thinks proudly, unable to hide a smile as he passes through the metal detectors on his way into the foyer. It is not as crowded here, but much louder—full of people laughing and smiling and chattering away in a dozen languages. When a server passes by carrying a tray of champagne flutes, he reaches for one instinctively.

If he is going to die tonight, he might as well do it in style.

The theater is nearly full by the time he makes it up to his box. Like many others scattered throughout the world, the box has been in his name—or, as far as various organizations are concerned, in his family’s name—for nearly a hundred years. It is his own little perch from which to enjoy the dual shows set out before him: the audience below, and the actors who will soon take the stage. Nicolò surveys the ground-level ticket holders as he shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it over the spare second seat in his box. In his early days, he liked to be down there amongst them, as close to the stage as possible. But time has taught him that comfort and privacy are worth more than proximity. He has room here to stretch his legs, stretch his arms. Room to remember how to relax. Or at least try to remember.

It isn’t until he’s seated and the house lights have begun flickering that Nicolò spots him. At first, he thinks it’s just a trick of the light—a figment of his own wary mind—but when he looks again, there’s no mistaking the face staring back at him from the box on the opposite side of the theater.

Even from a distance, Yusuf looks good.

Nicolò does not usually allow himself to admit such things, but then again, rarely do they ever meet each other in such refined circumstances. In the early days of a thousand years ago, they were forever filthy when they clashed—covered in dirt and grime and blood, howling obscenities in languages the other could not understand as they stabbed and beat and throttled the other. They were products of the battles raging around them, and strengthened by the battles between them. Their clothes were tatters beneath their needless armor and their hair and beards were unkempt to the point of savagery. Thinking back to those days is almost like remembering a different being—an earlier branch in the evolutionary tree.

They have spent the last few centuries cleaning themselves up, though usually when they go about the sacred business of killing each other, they wear something more practical than suits—jeans or fatigues, something understated and suited to the job. Never have they looked this genteel in each other’s presence, and Nicolò is having a hard time looking away.

Self-consciously, he reaches up to adjust his bowtie.

He swears he can see Yusuf smirk, sitting there across the gulf in his all-black suit, and Nicolò makes a point to look towards the stage, though there is nothing to see there yet except the curtain. He manages a minute or two of discipline before glancing back. Yusuf’s eyes are waiting for him, impossible to read from this far but nonetheless magnetic. Nicolò gives in, taking time to study him, doing his best to suss out what has changed since they last saw each other.

It was nearly a decade ago, on the dusk-darkened streets of Osaka. After weeks of stalking, days of failed ambuses, Nicolò had surprised him with a knife at his back, and another at his neck. Yusuf had been quick to react—but not quick enough. Nicolò had him gutted in seconds, tearing through his stomach and his throat in two merciless, masterful stokes. He should’ve let Yusuf fall to his face in the gutter, but that selfish instinct—to be seen, to be _known_ —won out, and Nicolò kicked him as he fell, so he crumpled on his side instead of his front. Their eyes met and Nicolò stood and watched as Yusuf bled out and died amidst rubbish, as he deserved.

And now here they are facing each other, pristine once more. As if that last death, and all the hundreds that came before it, never happened. Nicolò stares at Yusuf in his dark suit, and he wonders if he dressed purposefully to emulate the demon Nicolò so often compares him to in his mind. He fits the part—he is as enticing as he is diabolical, like every part of him has been perfectly calibrated to lead Nicolò astray.

The house lights, fading above them, save him from his spiraling thoughts. As the room plunges into darkness, Nicolò has no choice but turn his attention to the stage. He has been looking forward to this evening for weeks and yet, when the curtain rises, all he can think is how much longer it will be until it will fall again.

He does his best to focus on the performance, but it is nearly impossible to enjoy now that he knows Yusuf is there, just across the room, watching him. Waiting. As one song blends into another, Nicolò finds himself wondering why exactly Yusuf picked tonight.

Perhaps the man has grown theatrical in his old age. Or maybe sadistic is the better word for it, Nicolò thinks, catching a smile play across Yusuf’s lips during one of the many weak moments he glances over. Nicolò wonders what he’s thinking of. All the ways he’s murdered Nicolò in the past? Or all the ways he’s planning to in the future?

He wonders what it will be like tonight.

After so many centuries, Nicolò thinks they should be able to read each other’s minds by this point, but of course they cannot. All they can do is work off of patterns they’ve been studying for centuries, and hope the other isn’t in a mood to surprise.

Nicolò curls his hands into fists around the arms of his chair, wishing he had a weapon. It was easier, in the old days. You could carry a sword, a dagger, a bow anywhere. Of course that fell out of fashion over time, but you could still manage a knife until recently or better yet, a gun. But now, with all these metal detectors and security protocols all over the place, it’s nearly impossible to carry anything of use into public places such as this.

Nicolò runs a mental inventory anyway, trying to think of what he has. There’s the metal billfold in his pocket; he could bend that out of shape and perhaps use it as the world’s dullest shiv. There’s the bowtie around his neck; that could become a garrotte, though Nicolò doubts he’d be able to keep up the pressure long enough on such a flimsy bit of fabric for it to be useful.

That leaves only his bare hands. He could kill Yusuf with those. He has before, many times, though it has been quite a while since they’ve resorted to using their own fists as murder weapons. Nicolò flexes his fingers anyway, remembering how hard they used to hit each other. They’d limp away with knuckles bloody and exposed to the bone. But such a death always causes a scene, and the last thing Nicolò wants to do tonight is cause a scene here, of all places.

Five minutes before he knows intermission is due to be called, Nicolò rises from his seat and slips out the back door of his box. He doesn’t need to look over his shoulder to know Yusuf is doing the same. He takes the stairs down two at a time, torn between wanting the bathroom and wanting a drink. He hates pissing himself in death nearly as much as he hates dying sober, but he doubts he can fit in both before Yusuf butchers him once more.

Drink it is—no line, just a smiling server passing him what amounts to piss in a glass for ten euros. Still, it’s worth it just to feel the burn as he downs it in one go. When he hears footsteps approaching, he whirls around, but it isn’t Yusuf. Of course it isn’t. They haven’t killed each other in front of onlookers in three and half centuries.

Despite all the blood they have shed between their two bodies, they have over the years come to a single unspoken agreement: no collateral damage.

Nicolò shoulders past the nameless man, tugging at his bowtie before reaching up to undo the buttons at his collar. He’s suddenly feeling short of air. And too much wine, too quickly, has made him a little foggy. He needs to get somewhere alone to clear his head.

But of course that is what Yusuf will be expecting. After a thousand years, he knows Nicolò as well as Nicolò knows himself. Better, even. He has found ways to exploit the weaknesses Nicolò isn’t even ready to admit he has.

He thinks about running instead of hiding as he heads down to the ground floor. He could take off into the night—but then what? Die in an alley like some kind of degenerate? No. No, he came to have a nice evening out, and he is determined to enjoy it before it ends.

Halfway down the stairs already, he decides to backtrack just as intermission is called. Crowds flood in from every direction, and it’s a struggle, pushing against all those people moving downward, but he manages it. Skirting to the edges, shoving past others—he knows he must look insane, but the adrenaline coursing through him refuses to let him walk like a casual theatergoer. Finally, he makes it to the hallway leading towards his box, and it isn’t until he sees it’s empty that he realizes he was expecting to see Yusuf there in the hall, waiting for him. It’s almost a disappointment that he isn’t.

But Nicolò shoves the thought aside, running a hand through his hair to bring it back into some semblance of a shape. He takes a couple steadying breaths, waiting until his hands are still before doing up the buttons on his shirt and fixing his bowtie. He sets his face, wiping it of any visible emotion, before stepping forward and reaching for the door.

It takes his eyes a moment to adjust to the sight before him. He can feel his brain limping along, refusing to believe what is true even as the primal part of him screams that of course this is the only way tonight was going to end.

Yusuf is sitting in the second chair—Nicolò knows it is him before the man even looks around. After so many years of hunting him, it is not Yusuf’s face that he is so well acquainted with. His face remains a mystery sometimes, even now, but the spread of his shoulders, the length of his legs, the slope of his neck? Those things Nicolò knows. Those things Nicolò can, and has, spotted through crowds of thousands.

Yusuf glances over his shoulder as Nicolò pulls the door closed behind him. There is a slight smile playing on his lips. Nicolò remembers watching a cat, once, toy with a wounded bird for over an hour before finally killing it. He thinks that the cat could learn something from Yusuf.

“Nice of you to join me.”

Of all the languages available to them both, Yusuf chooses Italian. Nicolò knows he means it as a final insult— _I will kill you and I will speak your words as I do it_ —but even so, he can’t ignore how melodic the words sound leaving Yusuf’s lips. His accent has improved since he last spoke Italian in Nicolò’s presence. His cadence is surer, almost native. Nicolò wonders if he has been taking classes.

“Technically,” Nicolò corrects as he steps carefully into the little room, “you are joining me.”

“I trust my invitation got lost in the mail?”

Nicolò doesn’t reply, but he notices as he takes his seat that Yusuf is holding something in his hands. It takes his frenzied mind a few seconds to realize it’s his jacket, the one he left behind on the chair when he ran. He feels an indescribable fury at watching Yusuf touch his things. His thumb is rubbing gently over the fabric, and it is worse, so much worse, than if he were ripping the jacket to shreds. It takes all the wherewithal Nicolò can muster not to snatch the jacket back. He has to remind himself that, despite the break for intermission, they are still in a crowded public building, and this is no time to make a scene.

In an attempt to stabilize his thoughts, Nicolò looks out across the balcony once more. There is nothing interesting to see on the other side, not now that Yusuf is here beside him. Still, he picks a point and stares at it, determined to look enthralled by anything apart from the man sitting next to him.

“Will you let me see the end?” he asks finally.

Yusuf considers the question for a moment. His hands are still cradling Nicolò’s coat. “You’ve seen it before, have you not?”

“Many times, yes.”

There is no point in lying, but still, the returning laugh from Yusuf stings. Nicolò abandons his faux preoccupation, his eyes cutting to the side.

“What?” he demands.

“Nothing, nothing.”

Yusuf is still laughing, though silently now. He shifts forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees, and as he does so, Nicolò gives him a quick once-over. He doesn’t see a gun tucked into the back of his waistband, or the outlines of any knives on his person. Though after all this time, Nicolò knows he wouldn’t use the usual spots, or the usual weapons. But what else could he be hiding? And where?

“It just fascinates me,” Yusuf continues, “that we return to the same amusements, again and again. After all these years, our tastes still haven’t changed.”

Perhaps the man is crazier than Nicolò has ever dreamed. “This is an _amusement_ to you?”

That gets a bark of laughter out of him, so sharp that Nicolò almost jumps.

“Not _this_ ,” Yusuf corrects, gesturing between them. “I meant _that_.” He nods out to the stage, and Nicolò almost starts to defend himself before he remembers that he owes this man nothing.

Nothing except death and blood, forever and ever, until finally one of them fails to come back again.

“You have not run,” Yusuf points out.

Nicolò shrugs. “I do not know what the point of running would be.”

“The point would be the _chase_ , dear Nicolò,” Yusuf replies, and something in the way he speaks—a mix of condescension and wry humor—makes Nicolò turn to face him.

He doesn’t know what it is that he sees—a shift in Yusuf’s shoulders, maybe, or the narrowing of his eyes—but he knows immediately that this is the time. He feels the panic start to overtake him, freezing his limbs despite how many times he has been through this. He used to think the fear would lessen the longer this went on, but it is always there, every time. Pumping his heart into overdrive and scattering his mind to nothing but a useless collection of base emotions and thoughtless urges.

Yusuf has a half-second head start, but that’s all he needs.

He lunges forward and slides the weapon in deep, piercing through Nicolò right lung. Nicolò jerks back, gasping—he would’ve toppled his chair if Yusuf weren’t gripping the back of his neck with his free hand, holding him upright. As Yusuf withdraws the weapon and plunges it back in—the left lung this time—Nicolò grapples with him, trying to shove him off, but it’s impossible. Yusuf is too close and too heavy and if Nicolò had breath he would scream, but now he cannot even manage a whine. The lights swim around him, and as they flicker he becomes dimly aware of the theater around them filling with people as intermission comes to a close.

 _We had an agreement_ , he wants to scream. But of course they never actually agreed. An unspoken rule is no rule at all. And it was Nicolò’s own fault for expecting anything akin to civility from a man such as this, who has hunted him through centuries, across continents, into and beyond death.

His existence alone follows no laws, be they spiritual or temporal, and Nicolò wonders why he bothers bowing to any himself.

“I must commend you,” Yusuf murmurs as he twists the weapon in his hands, withdrawing before pushing it in deeper. Nicolò can feel it grinding against one of his ribs and he grits his teeth against the vile sound as much as against the pain. “It took me a while to find you this time. I did not expect Vienna.”

Nicolò opens his mouth to reply, but he can’t manage anything more than a choked mouthful of blood as he struggles. After so many deaths, one would think he could control himself better, fight back harder—but it is this difficult every time. It is like fighting through quicksand with leaden limbs.

“I spent the last decade in Italy, certain you were hiding out there again.” Yusuf’s voice has hardened to a hiss; Nicolò can feel the fury in his words like heat and he flinches at the burn. “I searched Genoa _block_ by _block_ for you.”

Each word is punctuated with a stab, the pace too frenetic for Nicolò’s body to handle. He can feel himself start to grow cold as the blood abandons his body in dozens of tiny rivulets. He cannot look down—he can only look at Yusuf before him—but he knows if he did, he would see his shirt soaked and in tatters. He can feel the blood seeping into the fabric of his pants, spilling to the floor, where it is filling his shoes and staining the carpet. Amidst all the pain, he feels a flash of guilt towards the old opera house—he does not know how he will explain such damage to a freshly renovated cultural landmark. Maybe a blank check would erase any questions. Or maybe he’ll have to disappear for another fifty years and reappear as his own progeny.

When Yusuf pauses in his assault to catch his breath, Nicolò grits his teeth and groans as the wounds start to heal themselves. There is pain in regeneration, almost worse than the initial injuries themselves. Yusuf knows this, and uses it to his advantage, dawdling as Nicolò’s body knits itself back together again, well aware that he can do nothing but pant through the double torture. Yusuf fingers one of the silver buttons on Nicolò’s shirt, rubbing his thumb against the smooth face. His touch leaves a smear of blood behind.

“Did you dress up for me, Nicolò?” Yusuf’s voice is a murmur, and Nicolò has to strain to hear him over the sound of his own rattling, blood-filled breaths. “Should I be flattered?”

“Not for you,” Nicolò manages to choke out. The blood is rising in his lungs and it’s hard to speak. “Didn’t—Didn’t know you’d be here.”

“No?” Yusuf’s laugh is little more than a disbelieving breath; he’s too focused now for mirth. “Of course you knew I’d be here,” he admonishes. “I’ll always be here. When you think I’m gone, when you think I’ve lost interest, when you think I’m done—I will _always_ find you.”

This time, when Yusuf goes to stab him again, Nicolò is ready for him—or as ready as he can manage, in this state. He doesn’t have enough strength in him to stop Yusuf, but he does manage to close his hand around the weapon as it sinks into his stomach. He thinks he’ll slow it down—but it isn’t until he notices his hand isn’t being sliced open that he realizes he isn’t being stabbed with a knife. He looks down in confusion, not understanding what he’s seeing until Yusuf withdraws the weapon.

“Resourceful, don’t you think?”

Yusuf smiles as he tosses the shattered champagne stem in the air, catching it easily despite the slippery blood soaking it to the hilt. He’s still smiling when he drives the jagged edge back into Nicolò’s chest, and it’s only then that Nicolò realizes the utility of Yusuf’s all-black ensemble. Where his white dress shirt is soaked in red, the blood splattered on Yusuf’s dark shirt and jacket can hardly be seen at first glance, unless you know what you are looking for. And who would look for a man covered in blood at an opera house’s opening night? Yusuf will walk out of here smooth as ever, and Nicolò’s ravaged body will remain behind, a testament to his triumph.

Nicolò closes his eyes, overwhelmed by the pain, exhaustion, and embarrassment of it all. Yusuf has made a pincushion out of his torso, and even though he can feel his body trying to heal, he knows it won’t be fast enough. He is drowning in blood, and his vision is beginning to narrow. He will die soon—in minutes, if not seconds. But worse than that fact is knowing how easily Yusuf got to him, and how utterly he failed to put up a fight. He deserves this death. He deserves all of it and worse.

“You are tired, yes?”

Nicolò attempts to shake his head, but it merely lolls on his neck. Yusuf smiles, using the hand on the back of Nicolò’s neck to pull him closer as he shoves the shattered stem in deeper. Nicolò gasps at the pain, the sound catching in his throat as his lungs begin overflowing. Yusuf is so close that when Nicolò coughs up blood, it sprays onto his face.

They haven’t been this close in decades, and Nicolò wonders wildly for a moment what a stranger would think if they glanced over and saw this: Yusuf half out of his chair, the two of them with arms wrapped around each other, hands grappling for purchase.

 _We must look like lovers_ , Nicolò thinks, all reason abandoning him. _Blind to all the world except each other._

But there is no love in the way Yusuf tears apart his chest. Before he was merely playing with him, but now it is work. He cuts like a butcher—precise, emotionless, just getting the job done with the tools he has. No task takes long once Yusuf sets his mind to it, and in seconds, Nicolò is finished. By the end, the largest act of defiance he can manage is simply keeping his eyes open. But even that is too much, and Yusuf knows it.

“Go on now,” he murmurs. “It is time to give up.” Yusuf’s voice is warm in Nicolò’s ear, and his lips are close enough that Nicolò can feel the brush of his beard against his skin. It is softer than he expected. “Go on back to Him, you foolish man, and watch as He forsakes you once more. See how He throws you back to me, for He cares nothing for you, and never has.”

Even if Nicolò could speak, there is no argument to make—for Yusuf is right. Nicolò is going to die here, powerless and pathetic, and he will not be rewarded—certainly not with Heaven—and even Hell, it seems, is too good for him. Instead he will return here, to this horrific Purgatory he will never be able to escape.

Already, he can feel the gravity of it pulling him in. He lost feeling in his extremities long ago, and the chill taking over his body now is too bone-deep to chase away. He is deaf to any sound but the rush of blood within his own body as it drains and drains and leaves him bereft. It takes everything in him just to keep his eyes open.

He can see Yusuf before him, his suit pitch and his hands crimson up to the wrists. Nicolò watches as Yusuf rises to his feet, tossing the bloodied champagne stem aside. He has no use for it anymore, for Nicolò will be dead in moments. There is no coming back from this and they both know it. But still, Yusuf stares down at the ruin he has made of Nicolò’s body and he watches until the end, just to be sure.

Yusuf's voice is the last thing Nicolò hears before he dies.

“ _Beautiful_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Well. This is new territory for me. I would so very much like to hear your thoughts—likes, dislikes, anything in between!
> 
> Thank you for reading. <3


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